


Sutures

by Anarhichas



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin receives an injury, and is patched up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sutures

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Armin is getting stitches without anesthetic, emergency sewing up during or just after a battle, maybe a long, deep flesh wound from crushing into another soldier and their blades. + if his leg and hip got cut so they had to pull his pants down publicly :'D
> 
> Concrit more than welcome, thanks for reading!

The cart jolts and rattles. Armin rattles along inside it, even on his makeshift bed of donated cloaks and sheets.

The sheets, he thinks, were brought to wrap the dead in. He remembers being unnerved by that. Now all he can think about is the agony tearing through his hips and thigh, raw and burning, and the way his control of his own body trickles away.

His heart beats too fast. His clothes stick to his skin from sweat, cold, and blood, hot. He is dizzy, nauseous; his throat crawls with thirst. The pain that had been manageable is tearing away at his mind like rabbits digging in sand, insistent, each scrape deeper and deeper. Over the drenched warmth of a folded bandage he presses down on his own flesh, one fist either side of the long wound, holding the edges together. Trying to stop the bleeding that continues to soak his clothes and leak over his skin.

He knows he is lucky for the victim of an accidental collision mid-air, blades out, still in battle. Had the other person's blades scored an inch deeper or wider he might have bleed out by now. Half a foot higher and he might have been gutted. One minute earlier and a titan could have taken him. Ten metres to the right and Eren might not have spotted him, kneeling on the floor where his broken gear had left him. There are so many ways in which he is truly lucky. He tries to tell himself this but cannot concentrate on the words.

The cart slows to a grinding halt. Armin presses harder, feeling the pain burn all the brighter for it. He cannot see anything but the cloud smeared sky and the sides of the cart – he wants to sit, to look for the others. Who has died, this time? Who did not make it? His vision blurs. Trying to move his body is like running bone tired, utterly spent, the last push before falling and not being able to get back up. He is cold, and so thirsty.

A face appears, peering over the side of the cart. It blocks out the sunlight, casting itself in shadow. It’s Jean, blood still gently steaming in his hair.

“Fuck,” he says, and touches Armin’s shoulder light enough he only sees, not feels, the action. “Hold on, I’ll get a doctor.”

He’s gone before Armin can beg for water.

There is the sound of voices in the air. Shouting, but not urgent. The shouts of army command, distant and incoherent to his ears. Armin clings to it, trying to decode the syllables as he stares up into the sky. Blood still trickles around his fingers. Time passes. He begins to fear that he'll be left alone in this cart, that the sky will darken and night fall and no one will come back.

His fears are broken by another face. It’s Eren; the wound over his brow that had nearly taken his eye out is healed entirely, as if it had never happened. Or had that been on another expedition? Armin cannot remember. He does not trust himself enough to open his mouth and speak.

“Armin,” Eren says. His hands hover above Armin’s own, then pull back. He sounds frightened. Are there titans near? Eren wouldn’t sound frightened at titans, though. “A doctor’s just coming. You’re gonna be fine.”

The doctor choses that moment to jump up on the back of the cart, kneeling down by Armin’s side. The movement makes the cart shudder and Armin bites back a whine as the pain flashes brighter for a second.

“Lift your hands up, let me see,” the doctor says, her voice cool. Armin does so, returning his gaze to Eren, who has climbed up to sit on the cart’s edge. Eren reaches down and grasps one of Armin’s hands, blood making the contact sticky. Armin’s other hand falls to lie on his stomach, gripping weak fistfuls of the shirt. He doesn’t want to see the doctor’s hands peel away the hasty bandage wadding he’d been given. The air is cold on the wound, despite the pain burning like fire.

The 3DM gear straps are already snapped, shorn apart by the same blade that had sliced his flesh. The knife is quick and efficient as it cuts through Armin’s trousers and underwear, the doctor pulling away the fabric from the wound with steady hands.

“Ah,” Armin protests weakly, as he lies there unmoving. His crotch is exposed along with the blood wet skin of his abdomen and right thigh, and he feels tight embarrassment wash over him, even under the doctor’s eye, professional, and Eren’s, seeing nothing new save the raw meat of inside the wound.

“I need to see to stitch it.” The doctor speaks in a no-nonsense tone; she has a water skin in her hands and she pours the contents liberally over the wound, washing it out with her fingers. The feel of cold water inside his flesh is sharp, foreign pressure. Then the doctor sets aside the water skin, and takes up a curved needle, already threaded. Her mouth is tight, her fingers coated in red. “Don’t move,” she says.

Armin is not sure he can obey, though he nods anyway. It's a nervous shiver of the head as he tries to steel himself. Eren grips his hand tighter and Armin is suddenly intensely glad of his presence.

The needle enters in a stab of pain barely distinguishable from that where the doctor’s fingers pinch together the split edges of his skin. The thread burns, a terrible slow friction. It pulls taut, tugged as its cut off and tied.

Armin closes his eyes as the process is repeated. He tries to map each stitch but fails to remember the topography of the wound. The needle and thread sink into the mire of agony burning up his lower half. He feels his toes curl, ankles bending to dig his heels into the cart floor. There is a weight on his knees, and he’s glad of it – were it not there he’s sure he would have jerked away by now. His spare hand gropes aimlessly upwards until Eren takes it also, holding it in a grip tight enough to hurt. He is still thirsty. How much longer is this going to take?

“Armin!” Eren is saying. “Breathe! You have to breathe.”

It seems like such a strange thing to say that Armin thinks for a moment he’s misheard. Then he realises that he’s holding his breath, a deep trembling pressure in his chest. He sucks in air, whistling. Then he releases it, and the pain in his leg causes his ribs to stick. His throat tightens then closes. He’s lost count of how many stitches have been done.

Fingertips touch his face and Armin’s eyes crack open. Eren is kneeling by his shoulders, bending so that they’re close.

“It’s almost over,” he says, a fervent promise. “You just have to keep breathing.”

Armin breathes. His jaw is pressed close, grinding. He doesn’t want to make a noise. Doesn’t want anyone else to see him like this: on his back with every vulnerable corner laid out, from the flesh beneath the opening of his split skin to his cock and balls, nested in pubic hair matted with fresh blood. The needle is piercing the muscle of his leg now. Surely it must be almost over.

He cannot help the loudness of his breath, deafening in his own ears, wet and harried and not enough. He feels like he’s suffocating in his own body. He turns his head and presses his face into Eren’s thigh.

“The tubes are to drain the infection,” the doctor says. It takes a moment for Armin to realise that she has stopped sewing. He is too tired to be relieved. “Don’t touch them. Now lift up, I need to get the bandages under you.”

Armin drags his legs into bending, now free to move, but he can’t lift his hips from the floor. Like someone has placed heavy weights on his belly, all of his effort achieves nothing. Closing his eyes he tries again, to the same useless effect. Then Eren’s hands disappear from his own, tacky as they pull away, and seconds later he is lifted, supported effortlessly like cradling a child. Tight pressure sears, excruciating for a long moment as the bandages are wrapped and tightened. Then he is lowered gently, the pain settling back once more into smaller volumes. Some light weight is cast over his lower body, hiding him. Eren reappears at Armin’s head and takes back his searching hands.

“All done,” the doctor says, and the shifting weight of the cart tells Armin that she’s already leaving. He opens his mouth – he should thank her, but his throat is gummy and he can’t speak.

“Here.” Eren’s knees nudge under his head until he is resting his shoulders on them, head pressing against the familiar warmth of Eren’s stomach. Something nudges Armin’s lips and he reaches out blindly, grasping the water canteen Eren is holding up to his mouth.

His hands shake. It is exhausting merely keeping them upright, but he manages it. He feels the movement of Eren breathing behind him, and the water spills down his throat like a blessing.


End file.
